Month: September 2016

Good Morning! Come on in! The Coffee is almost ready and I’m in a terrific mood!

So, yesterday started like every other day. The Viking is supposed to get up at dawn but he rarely ever does. It’s almost like he doesn’t know he’s supposed to get up with the sun. It’s left to me to get him out of bed; it’s a chore but I try to have fun with it.

Me: Now that you mention it, I’m starving!! Oh, wow! I am seriously starving! Hurry up with that food! Gawd! Are you ever slow! You’re useless! I bet you come from a long line of useless people. It’s a wonder you can dress yourself in the mornings. Come on Asshole! Get a move on! I am seriously going to shit on your pillow if you don’t get that food in the bowl…….

The Viking: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m coming.

Me: It’s about fucking time! Leave. So I can eat. Now.

I know, right? The shit I have to put up with. Of course I actually say that to him. I’ve never claimed to be a nice cat. Really? Why not? Then you are human whipped. I say whatever the hell is in on my mind.

The Missus played with me for a little while – not nearly long enough in my opinion. I told her exactly how useless she is as well. So I had a short nap until The Viking came in for his morning constitutional. But he casually went to the bedroom like he might be thinking of playing with me, so I followed him and then he made a mad dash down the hallway with his tablet in hand and closed the bathroom door against me! I said:

“HEY!! HEY!! WHAT THE FUCK! THE DOOR IS CLOSED! LET ME IN RIGHT NOW! THIS IS THE KIND OF THING THAT MAKES ME LIKE YOU LESS! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU LOCKED ME OUT! YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I ENJOY LYING IN THE SINK, WATCHING YOU. I DON’T CARE IF IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT! I USE A LITTER BOX! TRY GOING THROUGH THAT FLAP DOOR AND THEN WE’LL TALK ABOUT SMELLING LIKE SHIT! OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT FUCKING NOW OR IT’S SHIT ON YOUR PILLOW. I SWEAR I AM GOING TO SAVE AN ESPECIALLY SMELLY, LARGE ONE JUST FOR YOU! OKAY…..YOU ASKED FOR IT BIG GUY! I WILL NEVER LAY ON YOU EVER AGAIN!”

And then he finally opened the door – that threat almost always works. No, I didn’t say ‘thank you’ because I shouldn’t have had to make those threats in the first place.

The remainder of the day went by slowly because The Missus only played with me once. There was one guy, though, who came through the door. He stuck his hand toward me and I thought I was going to get a bite in but then The Missus was all “Careful! She bites!” and he jerked his hand away. I did slap him a good one on the back of his hat when he walked past me to leave though. It’s something, I guess.

It was after supper that things got interesting. The Viking and The Missus were watching TV and I was laying on my castle perch. Then I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was moving slowly in jerky movements so I got down to get a closer look.

IT WAS A THING!! A LIVE THING!

I tried to high-five it but it took off running. I bounced after it and stepped on its tail. It smelled interesting. Why has The Viking and The Missus never brought me a toy like this before? It made little noises when it ran and I batted it around and tossed it into the air. I think the THING really liked it! We had a great time. The Viking wanted to know what I was doing but The Missus said:

“Shht! Leave her alone! She’s not bugging us!”

Eventually, the THING quit moving. I thought it might be sleeping so I lay down beside it and waited for it to wake up.

What did it look like?

Oh! Haha! You mean before I killed it?

What? Well I didn’t know I killed it until The Missus said I killed it. I didn’t know it was called a mouse until The Missus said it, either! Don’t look at me like that! It’s instinct! I couldn’t have stopped myself from killing it any more than a bird could stop flying…..unless it’s an emu or an ostrich…..well, that’s just muddying the waters now. The important point is that it’s our purpose in life! Embrace your inner assassin.

After a while The Missus went past for more water. On her trip back into the living room she stopped and really looked at the toy.

She said: “Holy Shit! That’s a real mouse!!” The Viking didn’t believe her at first but he got up and took a look for himself.

He said: “Yup. That’s a fucking mouse. How in the hell did it get in here?”

Her: It’s a pity mice don’t actually make and mend clothes like Disney would have us all believe.

Him: What?

Her: You know! Cinderella? The mice that made her dress? And birds don’t actually help the mice make the dress in real life, either.

Him: ….

Her: I’m not picking it up.

Him: I’m not either until I find something to grab it with.

Then The Missus turned her attention to me and she was all “Good girl, Izzie!! You killed a mouse! Yah!!!!” What followed was an orgy of treat giving and petting and praise and exclamations of “She’s only six and a half months old!” I basked. I think I like basking. Especially in praise.

And that’s why I’m in such a great mood today. I found my life purpose. And I’m still young! I can channel all my energy in one direction. I’m focused, like a lazer! I’m creating a patrol pattern throughout the house so I can be certain the perimeter won’t be breached without detection. I need a chase strategy – I can’t allow the intruders to find ‘bolt holes’ where I can’t reach them. Soooo much to do!

Well, I suppose it would have been better to have found my purpose helping cats in need or in cat search and rescue, but that’s not up to me. I just answered the call of destiny, my friend.

Susan Jarreau. That’s who did it. It’s entirely her fault. I was minding my own business, writing posts, crashing into things and trying to annoy The Viking – same old, same old. And then suddenly it wasn’t same old, same old because……Susan Jarreau!

She found my blog a while ago and liked my posts – it’s always a thrill when someone likes my posts! After I was finished dancing my Happy Dance, I decided I should go and check out her blog – it’s only fair, right?

Holy Shit! She’s amazing! It’s not often that I find an author who writes so beautifully. And while I was feeling inferior to her talents she had to go and nominate me for The Black Cat Blue Sea Award!

Don’t you need to write something useful? I’m just stumbling through life leaving havoc, chaos and confusion in my footsteps. That’s not really worth an Award, is it? If it is, I should have been writing decades ago!

Apparently, this is an award given and received by fellow bloggers and is meant to be fun. I have to answer 3 questions and then nominate 7 other bloggers for the award. If any nominees are not interested in participating they don’t have to, I won’t be offended and neither will anyone else. The Rules are:

The questions Susan wanted all her nominees to answer are:

1. Why did you start blogging.

The Viking and I assaulted 8 European countries last fall. I played Charades with 3 dart players, a bartender and a waitress in the town where Joan of Arc was born. The Viking got drunk and offended a Priest in Florence. We both gave locals in Pula a lesson in creative cursing. And we had a foot race in Reims to a place neither one of us wanted to go to.

I started blogging because I wanted to know if I could tell these stories so others might enjoy them or if I was just a nut. The jury is still out on that but I have followers! How cool is that?! Maybe I should start plumping up my travel journal.

2. What do you do when you need to unplug and relax?

Absolutely nothing. Except breathe. And if I could convince The Viking to serve me Bugles and Brandy I would be drunk, too. I would do all this nothingness in bed with a heated blanket and a body pillow. I need to sort through the detritus cluttering up my brain from time to time and I can’t do that without locking out the world. Does that answer the question?

3. Name 3 people you admire and one of the qualities you admire in them.

The Viking because when someone thinks about fucking with him he pulls out a Battle Axe and a Shield and says “Make my day.” The reason I find this admirable is because I don’t have a Battle Axe or a Shield and I have foot prints all over my back. Someday though……

Mim (my daughter) because…….really? I can only say one thing I admire? Fine. I’ll pass over intelligent, confident and honest and settle for…..she looks fucking adorable in Pig Tails. I didn’t notice that about her until a couple of weeks ago when she showed up all hippie chic with Pig Tails and then I just wanted to pull them and squeeze her cheeks.

The third person I admire is actually not a person, technically, but a cat; Izzie, to be precise. As I sit here, mentally sifting through all the people I know to pick only one I admire and why, Izzie has just finished molesting my boobs and is now shouting obscenities and graphic death threats at The Viking who has closed the bathroom door so he can poop in peace. Who wouldn’t admire that kind of hootzpah? Seriously!

And now for my seven nominees:

Questions for my Nominees:

What was the worst pet you’ve ever owned and why? If you’ve never owned a pet, tell me about a friend or relative’s worst pet ever.

Who is the worst human being you’ve ever known? Why are they the worst? Here’s your chance to ‘out’ them!

What is the worst dish your Mother always made when you were a kid? Did you have to eat it?

Phew! Finally finished. This was the most difficult post I’ve ever written; I’ve been at it for 3 days and my head hurts. Compliments and Awards are things I have no idea how to handle so I do a lot of babbling and blushing. But, I’m done.

Huge thanks to Susan Jarreau for nominating me. It’s been a nightmare, to be honest, but it forced me out of my comfort zone and, if the experts are to be believed, it’s a good thing.

PS: One last thing! I would like everyone who reads this post to the end to answer at least one of those questions I asked my Nominees. Put your answer in the comments and make me laugh.

OH! Watch the kitten…..she bites! I know she’s absolutely adorable but she’s like a rose with extra thorns. And it’s probably not a good idea to sit on that particular chair because she uses it as a launch pad to get to the window or as an aid to change directions in a flat out race. You’ll feel like you’ve been molested by the time you leave.

Okay. You’ve been warned. :o)

So, I decided that I just don’t get enough fun time during an ordinary day. I haven’t pulled The Viking’s pants down in the garage for eons or given him a Wedgie either. I think it’s because he doesn’t react; he just stands there putting that carburetor together without missing a beat while his pants are around his ankles. Honestly, I’ve gotten bored with his lack of reaction and gone in the house. I did wonder once if I should just pull his pants up again for him but then I thought “No way! What little fun I did get out of Pantsing him would be obliterated!” I think he’s being Passive Aggressive or something. One time he cooked a whole pound of bacon and fried 4 eggs with his pants around his ankles.

No. I’m not kidding you. I stood beside the table the entire time and he never pulled up his pants. I think I even asked, “Aren’t you going to pull up your pants?” and he said, “What the fuck for? You’ll just pull them down again.” Which was probably true.

The one time I actually did get a reaction was when I started flapping his left nipple when we were reading in bed. I kept reading but my finger was flicking the nipple at approximately 6 flicks per second. He didn’t do anything! So I moved it up to about 8 flicks per second. Still nothing! Finally, at about 15 flicks per second he said, “What the fuck are you doing?” I’m not sure what kind of reaction I was hoping for but that wasn’t even close! Maybe mutual nipple flicking? I don’t know but after a while I got bored and stopped flicking it.

Exactly! That would have been a load of fun! There would be laughing and giggling and finger flicking…..it would have been awesome! Instead, it’s a bloody shame. Sometimes, when I’m walking past him, I’ll give one of his nipples a half-hearted flick but I’m beyond expecting a reaction anymore.

And then, night before last, we had a conversation:

I said to The Viking: You know what we’ve never done? Wrestle. We should wrestle.

Me: Not always! When it’s love-wrestling no one gets hurt and maybe it’ll end up in something else entirely.

Him: No.

Me: Come on! You’ve never chased me around the bed before either.

Him: Why would I chase you around the bed? That just wastes a lot of time and we don’t need that shit!

Me: Well….not a lot of time because the bedroom isn’t that big. And now that I’m thinking about, it we can’t run around the bed so we’d have to crawl over the bed. That would make it the slowest chase in recorded history – like getting run over by a steam roller. And there would be a significant risk of me getting a boob caught under my knee. Fine! You don’t have to chase me around the bed.

Him: Pfft!

Me: That doesn’t excuse the lack of love-wrestling going on in this house.

Him: I’m not fucking wrestling with you. You’ll get hurt! I’m only trying to protect you!

Me: …..

Him: …..

Me: You’re one of those people who are ‘in it to win it’, aren’t you!

Him: …..

Me: You always have to win, don’t you?!

Him: Oh for fucksakes!

Me: You always have to have the last word too.

Him: I do not.

Me: Yes you do.

Him: I do not.

Me: See? The last word.

Him: FOR FUCKSAKES!! I’m going to read!

Me (calling after him as he stomps down the hallway): Last word!!

So, I guess wrestling is off the table. I’m down to prank phone calls now. When I go shopping and he’s all alone to answer the phones I’ll call and ask if Mike Hunt is there. He’ll probably recognize my voice though. Sigh.

OH! Let me get you a Bandaid. And some Peroxide. I told you she bites. I’ve been buying Bandaids in bulk since we got her.

I’m so glad you dropped by. I’ve missed you terribly. We have to get better at staying in touch.

When I woke up this morning my plan was to write a post. Sometimes this only takes a couple of hours because I’m in the groove and other times it takes the entire day because I have to slog through ideas that went nowhere, ideas that went somewhere I didn’t want to go, ideas that turned me into an angry Harpy or, most likely, no ideas at all. But today I was optimistic that it would be the former; I slept good and I was in a relatively good mood given that I wasn’t on vacation and I wasn’t a Millionaire. And I even managed to play with the Feline Fiend before I had coffee. I hoped the play time would buy me some uninterrupted writing time but Izzie is never that gracious. Still, the Writing Gods were obviously in my corner.

Or not.

In hindsight, I think I mistook the Writing Gods for the Just Kidding Gods who were, most probably, laughing. It was barely past 9:00am when I opened my email and realized that my plans for the day were……well……fucked. Hunkered down in my In Box was the offending email. “Your parts have arrived and are ready for pick up.”

Shit.

I am the parts picker upper around here. The low wo/man on the Totem Pole. The Gopher (basically a rodent when you don’t sugar coat it). There is no one else that I can foist it on. The buck stops here.

The Viking has fairly firm rules regarding the position at the bottom of the Totem Pole:

He/She who makes the least amount of money shall be The Rodent and shall perform all Rodent-y duties including picking up parts, making meals and doing laundry. Also, The Rodent shall help look for lost tools, the misplaced telephone, missing keys and small parts that have been put down somewhere and now can’t be found.

Addendum: The Rodent shall also smile, nod and make appropriate sounds of support during random outbreaks of cursing, finger pointing, and blaming.

For the most part I totally agree with the rules, except when it’s inconvenient and then I start looking for loop holes. Unfortunately there’s very little wiggle room in the ‘earnings’ section of the rules. So, I am the Gopher / Gnaveren / La Rongeur / Das Nagetier! Whatever you want to call it……I am the rodent.

And don’t get me wrong either. I don’t usually mind picking up parts because it keeps The Viking busy so he doesn’t bother me with little things like accomplishing something. Ordinarily, I like driving; I turn the music up too loud, sing terribly but loudly, conduct the orchestra and enjoy the sunshine. But I had plans!

Sure, I needed to go to the grocery store and pick up Lottery tickets but that would only take an hour out of my day. I would have plenty of time to write, right? Adding a jaunt to the other side of the city and back would take a significant chunk of my time though – especially when the City insists on throwing Construction zones in my way.

I can’t say for certain but I suspect that construction sites are where guys and, to a lesser degree, girls go to just hang out – like a daycare center for grown-ups. They laugh and play and generally do nothing until someone (The Viking?) tells them I need to go somewhere and suddenly they spring into action and stop traffic in all directions.

They also put people on the road with huge signs that say “SLOW”. I don’t know why. Don’t those people have enough challenges without being forced to stand on the side of the road with a sign? Are the Construction Gods hoping that I will feel so bad for the slow people that I won’t notice the Construction Zone? If that is their reasoning I would really like to see people standing there with signs that say “STILL DRUNK” or “SLEPT WITH THE BOSS’S WIFE” or “NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR”. Now that would brighten up my day and make me far happier slogging through construction zones!

Once I’m finally through the construction zone, I think people abandon their earth movers, backhoes and hard hats and informal games of baseball or soccer resume. It’s only a theory but it certainly would explain the ridiculous amount of time it takes to put an overpass together.

Anyway……….

I didn’t get my post done yesterday. Who knows what brilliance might have happened? Instead, I can only complain about lost opportunities and foiled plans. When I finally finished with my errands for the day and found myself sitting in front of the computer I was completely stumped. Zero inspiration. I trolled through Facebook. Nothing. The clock kept ticking and the cat kept laying on my boobs (It’s hard to think – not to mention type – when your boobs become lodgings for a pet). I played Solitaire for half an hour and felt guilty. I scrolled through my Reader. And then…….

The Bloggess has something new. Inspiration! She hadn’t accomplished anything either except forgetting something that she didn’t know she knew. It makes more sense when she says it. However, I managed to slog through useless ideas, and several construction zones and found enough to say/complain about for a post.

I’m pretty sure that I’m not going to win a Pulitzer with it. Not a single word of this post has fallen onto the page the way some posts do. This one was a slogfest. Edit after edit after edit. It seems less than what I would expect for two days work but here it is.

PS: The cat accidentally stepped on the adding machine paper advance and scared the living shit out of herself. Best thing that happened all day. Or yesterday, for that matter.

Good morning! Come in! We’ll have to make due with Chicken Broth today because someone didn’t buy any more Salmon…..cough….Missus! I did manage to save a couple treats from my Treat Toy though.

See this? It’s a new collar! And it’s made of pearls and little rhinestones. I couldn’t wait to show you. I look like Elizabeth Taylor! It didn’t have much of a bell so The Viking put a better one on. Now I’m a tinkling Elizabeth Taylor!

The Missus wanted to take a picture of beautiful me but I have principles and one of those principles is to deny people what they want the most. If it’s within my powers to crap on their dreams, I crap. It’s a gift.

I sit on the table and look beautiful. She grabs her phone, turns it into a camera, points it at me and…..I walk away….face down. The Viking said he could do better but I proved him wrong as well. The Missus snort-laughed.

Oh, come on. It’s funny! You should try it some time.

In other news, Junior came for dinner last night. I used to like him; I even curled up and slept on his lap a couple of times. But the first thing he said was “Is she any nicer?” Nicer?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I’ll admit that I might not be the Debbie Reynolds of the Cat World but that doesn’t mean I’m not nice. I’m nice all the damned time! I don’t slash them with my claws anymore. That’s nice! I haven’t shredded a single roll of toilet paper for at least a week. That’s nice! And I haven’t made a single piece of art out of sugar in, at least, 2 weeks. That’s nice!

So I bit him. Go me, right?

The whole thing got me thinking though. And then I realized that I wish I wanted to be nice but I just don’t. I like sitting on my castle and slapping every person that comes through the back door. I don’t use my claws but I really give them a solid slap. I like the look on their face; the surprise that only comes from being unexpectedly assaulted. It’s funny.

The Missus was loading the dishwasher the other day and the water was running in the sink. I stuck my foot in the water and then flicked it right in her face when she was bent over to put a plate in the dishwasher. I liked the look on her face. I hadn’t thought it all the way through though, because she said “Challenge Accepted!” and pushed me into the sink full of water. I think she liked the look on my face. It was totally worth it though.

I like fucking up family pictures. I like the “Beware of Bite-y Cat” sign on the back door. I like yodelling at the top of my lungs sometimes because it annoys. I like waking them up in the middle of the night. I like complaining and demanding and lecturing.

So maybe I’m not meant to be a nice kitty. Maybe I’m meant to be more like Lucifer in Cinderella only much thinner and better looking. And really, aren’t there enough sweet, cute, adorable, affectionate, behaving cats in the world already? They wouldn’t even exist if there weren’t cats that were the opposite. Everything needs balance, right? Well, I am doing my part to keep the world balanced. How many cats can make that claim?

Yes, I know you are one of the good ones. I won’t hold it against you.

It can be no surprise that a woman born and raised in Canada and a man raised in Denmark may have a few culture clashes. Sometimes they are just little discussions and other times they are nothing less than Shield Walls, Throwing Axes and shouted Curses. And, as you may suspect, The Viking is better at shouting curses than I am. He’s also the one who taught me every single thing I know about the Danes.

Here is a list of things that are affected by our cultural differences:

Food

Especially pork because Canadians have absolutely no idea how to cut up a pig, apparently. Also Pickled Herring, Thin brown cardboard called Rye Bread, Red Cabbage, Licorice Liqueur/Shooters/Candy and anything Cheese.

Me: What do you mean we don’t eat Turkey?! Everybody eats Turkey!

The Viking: I fucking hate Turkey. In Denmark we eat Pork Roast, Duck, Caramel Potatoes, Plain Potato chips and a side of Pickled Red Cabbage.

Gifts

They don’t give gifts to each other, I guess. Gifts are a symptom of over-commercialization and spoils the true meaning of Christmas which is to watch Nisseman (Elves) on TV and then feed them a bowl of rice, boiled to a stew-like state with one almond in it; the first Nisseman that chokes to death on the almond wins a small toy. At least that’s what I think it’s all about. I find it all confusing.

Me: What?! No gifts? Where’s the fun in that?!

The Viking: It’s bullshit! You spend all your money buying junk for people who don’t even appreciate it and then you spend the next six months trying to pay it off.

Me: Not everyone does that. I’ll admit that some people do that but I don’t.

The Viking: If you want something go buy it yourself! I bought you a Dryer last month and that’s your Christmas gift!

Me: But I want to give you gifts. I would rather give one than receive one anyway.

The Viking: Not good for the fucking wallet, now is it!

Me: Sigh.

Walls

They must be painted white. Always white. Actually, everything has to be white. Kitchen cabinets, tables & chairs, carpets, dishes and flooring. Except the ceiling which is wood that has been white-washed.

Me: Why is everything so white?

The Viking: Because it’s usually overcast through the winters in Denmark and white brightens things up.

Me: What about the summer? Don’t they get blinded by the glare when it’s sunny? Don’t they lose all depth perception like people with snow blindness?

The Viking: It looks neat and clean.

Me: A lovely caramel color on the walls would look bright and neat and clean, too.

The Viking: Caramel is for Potatoes.

Me: Sigh.

Beds

They don’t share bedding. Ever. Each person has their own Duvet which they wrap themselves in to sleep. When they get up in the morning, they fold their Duvet lengthwise and lay it on the mattress.

Me: But that’s UGLY!

The Viking: Who’s going to see it?

Me: Someone might see it if they walk all the way down the hallway.

The Viking: …..

Me: Well, I would see it! It should be a beautiful room not something that would look comfortable as a University dorm room! It should be a place that exudes love!

The Viking: I don’t need a fucking room to remind me that I love you!

Me: Ack!! It’s not about that! Well it is about that but it’s also about an intimate and inviting environment, Dammit! Nothing ruins the mood for me faster than Frat Boy Décor!

The Viking: Fuck’s sake! It doesn’t look that bad!

Me: YES IT DOES! It looks awful! I want to stop and admire what a beautiful bedroom we have instead of looking away from the ugliness, shielding my eyes with my hands so I don’t get an accidental freak peek. I have to walk into the room backwards so I don’t have to look at the horribleness! Gawd!!!

Christmas Decorating

They cut out paper Nisseman and paste them all over the house. The tree is decorated with crafty woven paper heart-shaped pockets and filled with candy…..licorice, no doubt. The tree skirt is burlap. Yes, you read that right, burlap. They put real candles on the tree, light them up and then dance around it singing Christmas Carols.

Me: Wait. I can’t put all the decorations I’ve been carefully collecting for the past 25 years on the tree?

The Viking: Your decorations aren’t even Christmasy. You can put a couple on but then we should put traditional Christmas Balls and paper heart pockets on it. Mostly paper heart pockets.

Me: So I have to make these things?

The Viking: You can buy little kits with pre-cut paper at the Danish Store.

Me: So I have to make these things?

The Viking: I can help you.

Me: Do I have to fill it with Licorice or can I put something delicious in them?

The Viking: You can put whatever the fuck you want in them.

Me: I have to cut out all these Nissemen? What if I cut myself? I’ve never had to do arts and crafts that could kill me for Christmas before. Why can’t they be perforated or something to make it less Arthritis-y?

The Viking: I can help you.

Me: Somehow I doubt that. And I have to put a crudely stamped, burlap tree skirt around the tree instead of my beautiful iridescent, gold-beaded skirt?

The Viking: What does your skirt have to do with Christmas?

Me: It is embroidered with golden Christmas Trees! What makes your Burlap skirt Christmasy aside from the stamped Candle on it?!

The Viking: It’s TRADITIONAL!! Fucksakes!!

Me: There is no way our arms will reach around this tree so we can dance around it singing carols. And, by the way, that’s probably a dangerous thing for me to do. One slip of the foot and the whole house could burn down.

The Viking: We can skip that part. But we should have candles.

Me: Isn’t that a fire hazard? A passing Fireman could look in the window and see the live candles burning next to the tinder dry branches! He might think he needs to save us so breaks the window and starts throwing snow on the tree! Wait! What if it’s a brown Christmas like last year?! He might have to PEE on the TREE! I’m not cleaning that up!

The Viking: For fucksakes! We only light the candles while we are singing carols and then we blow them out!

Me: Fair warning: I only know the dirty version of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

The Viking: Sigh.

Hans Island

Thankfully, The Viking and I are reasonable people and I’m pretty sure I can convince him to let me have Turkey, Stuffing, Mashed Potatoes, Corn Casserole, Sweet Potatoes and Pumpkin Pie sometime in the next 5 years. After all, if the Danes and the Canadians can leave each other whiskey on a deserted but contested island for over 30 years, I should be able to have turkey.

Oh yum! I forgot how good coffee is and, to be honest, Salmon juice just doesn’t cut it as a morning beverage.

So……my week started great – just like every other week – but on Tuesday The Missus started acting a little funny. She was all sweet and cuddly and attentive. The Viking was even better! He was ‘tut tutting’ me all the time and coo-ing. I thought “Finally!! I’ve finally trained you people how to serve me properly!!” But it was a ruse! I was tricked!

They took me to the Vet and the people there shaved my belly, cut me open, took some stuff out and sewed me back together. See?! My beautiful belly is ugly now! It turns out they took away my right to decide if I want a bushel of kittens or not! I don’t know what having a bushel of kittens would be like but that’s not the point! The point is that they took away my right to decide. And that’s nothing compared to what they did next.

Whispers….

They put a microchip between my shoulder blades. They can track me now. Big Brother, The Overlord, The Borg…..they’re watching me. They know where I am all the time!

No, I don’t have a tin hat! Gawd!! You’re a terrible friend sometimes. I don’t know why I even put up with you. This isn’t a conspiracy theory like the Siamese twins down the street who think their owner is an alien. This is serious and all too real!

I overheard the Vet and The Missus talking. Apparently ‘AVID’ is the name of Big Brother and he can tell exactly where I am, any time, day or night. Millions of pets are being tracked! Well, not the cat I saw pooping in my neighbor’s flower bed because I’m pretty sure they would have eliminated him by now if he was microchipped.

Oh my Gawd!! I just realized…….that’s what “Animal Control” is!! It’s The Overlord’s minions trapping pets that have gone rogue. They could come for me any time. There are posters all over the neighborhood about missing cats – The Missus thought it was some cantankerous old guy with a cat trap but I’d be willing to bet a whole can of food that it’s The Overlord.

Well, how should I know what he wants with all those cats! I don’t know everything – just most things. What’s important right now is to come up with a strategy to minimize my exposure to Big Brother. As long as I stay in the house The Viking will protect me.

Well, of course he can protect me. He’s a Viking! That’s what they do…..when they aren’t pillaging and berserking.

And to be honest, today is the first day that I’ve felt good enough to contemplate the ramifications of my microchip. Thursday I could only sit in the sun or fall asleep. Yesterday I wasn’t as spaced out but my belly hurt really bad. Today, I am quite a bit better.

And while The Viking and The Missus were still feeling sorry for me this morning, I managed to pilfer coffee, sugar and a touch of cream.

You’re welcome. They caught on to me fairly quickly though when they saw me trying to sneak away with the Treat Bag. Hence no treats to have with your coffee. I’m only one cat after all.

Watch your back, my friend. Big Brother is watching me and I can only assume they will target my friends and associates. You may be scooped up one day…….

I was sitting at my computer last night, playing a mindless card game, wasting time until I could justify going to bed. But then there was a commotion in the hallway and muffled curses from the bathroom. I smiled.

The Viking has a shower every night before bed because he’s a motorcycle mechanic and he gets dirty. Izzie joins him in the shower because water fascinates her. It’s ‘their thing’. Every night Izzie waits patiently until The Viking streaks from the bedroom to the bathroom – okay, it’s a very slow streak but he’s still streaking. I can provide proof if it’s absolutely necessary but I’m hoping you’ll just take my word for it.

Last night there was a change in scheduling though. The Viking’s plumbing decided that what should have happened in the morning would now happen at night, just prior to his shower. In order to save time, he streaked….struck?….Straked?….to the bathroom even though he had something else to do before he got in the shower.

Try explaining that to a cat! Especially to a cat that has been waiting for several hours for The Streaking Viking already and now finds the bathroom door firmly closed against her.

Izzie: Woooaaaahhh! Muuwah! Aaaaa!

The Viking yelling through the bathroom door: Izzie! Stop it!

Izzie: Aaaaaaa!!! Eeeeooowww!! Muuaa!

The Viking:I’m taking a shit, for fuck’s sake!

Izzie, slapping the bathroom door like a drummer in a rock band: Waaaaaa! Aagg!!!

The Viking:You don’t want to be in here! It smells like shit!

Izzie, now sticking one front leg all the way under the door, slapping the inside of the door, and the floor for good measure: Wah!! Eeeeeeoowww! Eeyahh! Wooaahh!

The bathroom door opens and then closes quickly. This is actually an impressive feat because the door isn’t all that close to the toilet; there is significant leaning and stretching involved in the maneuver.

The house becomes quiet. For a minute or two. Then, very muffled, I hear a little squeak.

Izzie: Waah?

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Waahh??

The Viking: …..

Izzie: Wah!!

The Viking: I told you it smells like shit in here! Now you have to wait until I’m done.

Izzie: Waaaaaaahhh.

The Viking: Maybe this will teach you to let me take my shits in peace.

Izzie: …..

The Viking: Uuhhkk! Don’t touch that!

Izzie: …..

The Viking: For Fuck’s Sake!! You know you’re not allowed to do that! Leave the paper alone!!